Chapter 13. The Symphony of Action
Art has always been associated with power, one way or another. At times in history, the individuals who made art were seen as possessing special powers. They could create objects from dirt, ashes, and stone that looked like living, breathing creatures, they could capture and freeze in eternity glistering morning dew, freezing blizzards, or a vast, endless sky with faraway stars, just like the one adorning the ceiling over the Coruscant opera.
So conveniently suggested by the Chancellor, the art house is also a true embodiment of power, at least, in human terms from centuries ago. Predating the Galactic Republic, it was built to celebrate the Core worlds, to persuade as well as impress, once this galaxy started expanding. Lavish, highly ornamental, designed to appeal to emotions as well as intellect. There is a sense of movement, tension in the artwork and even statues, capturing a moment in time on the brink of a crescendo. The irony is not lost on him, for tonight, indeed, is simply a moment of calm before the storm.
Thrawn sends a coded message to General Skywalker with coordinates of a HoloNet transponder on the rooftop. The Chancellor's idea plays straight into his hands, for nothing beats a well-timed coincidence: while he could've quietly dispatched Norgis to deal with the transponder, today's outing gives him a pretext to make the Jedi master feel involved, further cementing trust as they are about to go through a crisis together. Luckily for him, General Skywalker is eager to help, and for now seems to be going along with his plan, at least the part that he's aware of. His sister would have probed right here and there, would've questioned some of the finer details and potential consequences, but the Jedi remains pensive and focused on the task at hand. Fascinating how personalities can be further augmented by echoes of their native worlds and upbringing. Tatooine and Alderaan in all their glory.
Speaking of Alderaan, his eyes focus on Senator Organa, who's is writhing in a chair in front of him.
A delicate curve of her neck, fragile and sharp lines of her tense shoulders, as if carved in ancient marble, yet filled with underlying movement and tension. A silhouette shimmering with internal drama, so fitting in this building, and, unexpectedly, much more captivating than artworks from centuries ago.
Unlike sculptures in marble, however, she shivers at his words, heat flushing to point where her neck meets her shoulder, a fact conveniently hidden by the semi-darkness of their box from anyone in the vicinity, yet so evident to him, that it takes Thrawn off guard for a moment.
"Had you taken your seat in the first place, no one would've paid attention to my impatience."
At least her temper is still intact.
"Indeed, but they would've seen mine."
Here it is again, a familiar range of emotions on her face: outrage, disbelief, fire… all mixed together in a perfect melody. Imagine the range if she knew of a true spectacle that is about to unfold tomorrow, but all in due course.
As every battle, this one started long before the first shot was fired. Ironically, it was Senator Organa who spotted what he was doing, even if she couldn't understand why.
"You understand they all still hate you, right? You literally just undermined Randd's influence in front of everyone…"
"I'd watch my back if I were you, Grand Admiral."
Mixed loyalties are a luxury, the one Thrawn cannot afford to enter the equation once a threat of Grysk becomes apparent, hence the most logical solution – eradicate a conflict of loyalties before it becomes a problem. All he needed to do is simply create conditions for a natural human tendency to manifest itself. Two weeks in close proximity, more than enough time to trigger those who were bound to turn on him anyways, sooner or later. Their alliance with the Senator helped to spur the matters along, even if she was oblivious to it. Where his usual disregard for political appearances and other people's vanity could only go so far, her flair for theatrics and masterful plotting managed to hit all the right spots, fuelling lingering fears and jealousy, born out of an insatiable desire for power among some of his fellow Imperials.
By the next morning, all figures are in their places, a symphony of action he's been setting up since the talks began, finally ready to unfold. It's a gamble, a classic high risk – high reward scenario, but he's never been the one to play it safe, so why change the habit of the lifetime now?
Just like during his holo-chess match with admiral Ackbar, he starts with an obvious one – pretends to walk right into the trap.
"After all, it was you who brought the New Republic to its knees, Grand Admiral, the late Emperor was right about your military genius," Grand Admiral Sloanne sounds almost sincere, if he hadn't heard her and other conspirators planning the entire operation almost from the start, who knows, he may have bought it. Three pairs of eyes follow his every move, as he joins the Chancellor on the central balcony.
Coordination from different pieces all over the board, faux sacrifices and retreats, all netted together in a complicated attack pattern masquerading as a defeat.
Invisible for the time being thanks to cloacking devises, the Noghri are already set in strategic positions blocking exits from the Senate. Pawns. Dispensable, single-minded, but loyal and potentially lethal, especially now that they know the truth, or, at least, a convenient version of it. Uncovering and sharing with them the Empire's deceit based on Lord Vader's files was another gamble, but a few timely revelations allowed him to put the blame squarely on the late Emperor and the Imperial high command, securing their personal loyalty to himself. Naturally, now they are all eager to assist in their quest for revenge.
The Knight is ready as well, observing an entry to the central balcony. His force sensitivity will be invaluable, since he will need to guess a right time to turn on a transponder placed on the rooftop of the Coruscant opera. Once turned on, it'll block all incoming Imperial signals designed to go directly into bio-chips, implanted in former prisoners. Such a delicate balance – the Jedi cannot turn it on too soon, for the galaxy needs to see the betrayal, yet every second of delay will be fatal, for a hundred former prisoners, each with a three-shot hold-out blaster, can potentially take out the entire New Republic cabinet and half of the Imperial high command (the half that is not involved in this coup attempt, that is).
Fleetingly, Thrawn muses that human history has an uncanny ability to repeat itself, twenty years in, the modus operandi hasn't changed much, conspirators seem to be following in the late Emperor's footsteps, for bio-chips they're using are based on same technology as the one implanted in clones who executed Order 66. The latter, however, gave him an idea. HoloNet transponders have evolved to have a much better frequency control than standard Imperial ones, so blocking the signal via commercial transmission will be all too easy. Thanks stars for free press, and the power of art, pun intended.
There are other figures, of course, strategically set on board of all Imperial fleets reporting to the conspirators.
The downside of the high risk – high reward mode is that a slight mistake, or a hidden trap, would make your entire game collapse.
Or a sudden appearance of a certain Queen, who disrupts his carefully designed symphony of action, and moves at will, joining him on the balcony.
A tentative smile that is hiding in the corners of her lips dies the moment she senses his tension. Astonishing, really, for astute she has become at reading him at such a short time.
"Senator Organa, what a surprise… it's a bit windy up here, may be worth taking the second row this time."
He realises futility of the suggestion even before he finishes the sentence. A defiant set of her shoulders, a slight stubborn tilt of her chin, and a serene, perfect mask of a politician takes over her usually expressive features, hiding a momentary flash of disappointment under a safety curtain of polite indifference.
Her presence shifts the entire set-up of figures on the board, so Thrawn has only a couple of minutes left to adjust.
His position isn't optimal, it's the Chancellor or the Senator now.
The angle allows to shield only one of them.
A thin cortosis-weaved armour under his uniform is designed only to cover the chest and the back, enough to deflect three shots, not ideal, but anything thicker would've been way too obvious. No protection on his shoulders or hands, for it would've restricted the movement and shown through.
Well, Senator Organa been his irrational choice from the beginning, no sense in questioning it now. Life, after all, is not a game of holo-chess, so it won't stop, if the Chancellor falls.
He can, however, try to deflect the worst of it, should he push her fifty degrees to the left.
Seven minutes, thirty seconds. That's all it takes for the plot to unravel and get thwarted.
One.
A flash of white, and the showdown begins.
Three former prisoners on their balcony, each keeping a small holdout blaster trained on a target.
Two.
Step, kick the weapon out of the hands of one of them, push the Chancellor away to the corner, to the jumble of chairs and microphones. Those holdout graphene blasters are designed to remain shielded from detection, but have a downside of a terrible aim and a three-shot limit. It'll protect her for the time being.
Two and a half.
Let them waste a few blaster bolts on the front – three shots hit squarely where he wants them to – in the middle of his chest. Turn around, push Senator Organa to the ground, the armour will withstand three more shots in the back. Her eyes are wide with shock, delicate fingers clutching at his uniform as they both fall to the floor.
Three.
A white hot flash sears throw his unprotected shoulder. It's the last shot they have, now it's only the matter of time. He looks around. The chancellor's leg is wet with red. Good, means the blaster missed, and it's not fatal, could've been worse.
Three and a half.
General Skywalker and the Noghri take to the balcony, firing stunt blasts, while other groups of Noghri and his people are taking to other balconies and start locking down the plaza.
Four.
"Impressive job, General Skywalker."
Once the former prisoners are apprehended and there is no more danger of shots on the central balcony, hence, no need to keep shielding the Senator, Thrawn sits up.
Eyes closed, her dress marred in red, but the location and pattern is a mirror image of his wound, so it's not her blood. Still, he presses his fingers to the pulse point on her neck. She's alive, possibly just got a concussion.
"Leia is fine, I can sense it," General Skywalker extends his hand to help him up, and Thrawn grabs it with his uninjured one. "Thank you, though."
"Couldn't have done it without you."
Five.
Ackbar and Madine rush in, they send the Chancellor to a hospital in a high-security med-speeder. General Skywalker doesn't want to let his sister out of his sight, so the Noghri carry Senator Organa to her old Senate office, securing the entrance with a couple of guards at the door.
Six.
He dismisses an offer of help, and takes out his comlink to check on his plan.
As expected, the conspirators try to flee. Predictable, so they're in for a surprise at the exit.
Seven.
Security services and army finally step in, locking down the plaza. Performative act at best, but it helps to quieten the panic. The crowd has already started to disperse below.
Seven and a half.
He checks his messages again.
Well, seems like the ancient wisdom of living by the sword, or blaster in this case, and dying by it, still holds true.
One hour in, Captain Pellaeon and Admiral Faro join in an impressive show of unity as well as insubordination, and finally drag him into one empty Senate offices for a med droid to check his shoulder wound, while the plaza is still locked down.
As a useless white durasteel sphere is probing around, Thrawn closes his eyes, taking stock of today's events. All in all, quite a successful operation, if he says so himself. Now it will be a matter of seeing through a few appointments in the Army and Navy, sorting out a couple of court marshal hearings for those conspirators who may still prove useful, and signing a peace agreement with the New Republic. From there, he can fully focus on his main mission.
Thud.
He hears a bang of the door, doesn't need to open his eyes to guess who has just barged in. It's a certain way the air moves with her, always creating a ripple far greater than her diminutive frame. Before he has a chance to ponder why he has noticed it in the first place, the familiar exasperated voice whispers.
"You're an idiot, Grand Admiral."
He opens his eyes and blinks.
Of all things he expected Senator Organa to say, from a thank you for the small fact of saving her life, to her typical incessant questions over the entire ordeal, this is definitely not the one…
She's not looking at him, walking back and forth across the office, absent-mindedly wringing her hands in a peculiar pattern. First, knuckles of her left hand, then her fingers, rubbing up and down, possibly trying to soothe her nerves. Her delicate right wrist is scratched, most likely, as a consequence of the fall.
Ah, probably she has had a chance to catch up with her brother, and in striking contrast to the Jedi master, she realizes that he could've simply uncovered the conspiracy before the first shots were fired, and given that the Chancellor has, unfortunately, been hit by the said shots, she's looking for someone to blame. Seems like a worried friend has taken over a tactician in her, surely, she cannot underestimate the power of such a public performance – it will serve as a warning for those who still harbour mixed loyalties, reinforce desire for peace on both sides, and, much more than any performative gala ever could, will change the hearts and minds, forging new alliances.
"A show off, arrogant, all-knowing, scheming, impossible… You and your stupid need for a drama."
She seems to be ranting in the earnest, most likely nerves and adrenaline catching up with her, Thrawn mentally turns off her words and takes her in: shaken, the pristine white dress splattered in blood, his, not hers, eyes glistening with unleashed tears. She blinks a bit too rapidly, squeezes her eyes shut as if she can force this display of emotions back under her eyelashes by sheer willpower.Somehow, Thrawn doesn't doubt that she can and will.
She makes a pause to gasp for air, that's it, his opening.
"Glad to see you alive and well too, Senator."
Just like that, she deflates, sinks on a chair next to the table he sits on, while the med droid is bandaging his shoulder.
"You could've warned me."
"No."
"Why?"
"While having you on my side has certain advantages, the risk was too high, they had to believe no one knew of their plan, and sometimes you, Senator, prefer to act out of emotions."
She crosses her arms on her chest in a defiant gesture.
"Had you warned me, I would've avoided the balcony," she's rubbing her hands again, voice barely a whisper, "you could've shielded Mon. It's my fault now…"
Ah, so that's what really is the matter. Survivor guilt and worry making her lash out at anything and anyone. He has observed this pattern once, in the man she refuses to call father, so better to put a stopper on it before it becomes self-destructive as well as dangerous.
"No battle plan can anticipate all contingencies. There are always unexpected factors, so it's a balance between plan and improvisation, error and correction. If not for you, anything else could've gone differently, Senator. Any news of the Chancellor?"
She nods, covers her face with her hands, but doesn't speak. Not for the first time, she reminds him again of statues in the Coruscant opera. Her pose a mixture of tension and weariness, as if she's holding herself together by a thread, but she remains unnaturally still, a small, fragile figure in white, standing out in sharp contrast to dark walls of the office they're in. Minutes tickle in, and whatever internal turmoil she's been fighting, is over. She looks up. Indeed, she did it, forced her tears back by sheer willpower.
"She's awake and aware, the injury is serious, but the doctors expect her to make a full recovery."
"Exactly, it all worked out in the grand scheme of things, Senator. Remember what I told you about regrets."
She simply shakes her head, lips pressed in a thin line.
"I still cannot believe they went that far… I should, probably, but…"
"Tell me, Senator, what's better than a hero?"
"A fallen hero." She answers all too quickly. Interesting, seems like she's given this some thought, for whatever reason.
"Almost. But there is one more option, even more irresistible… a dead hero, for he can become a symbol and a banner for revenge, helps that he would never compete for power or cause trouble, too."
"They wanted you dead, from the start." Her eyes widen, "They didn't set up to kill Mon, it was you…"
"Of course they did."
They slip into another silence, disrupted only by mechanical buzzing of the med droid and muted sound of sirens still coming from the outside. At some point, Thrawn feels her gaze on him, taking in the bandage the med droid has been applying to his shoulder, cataloguing constellations of old scars on his back and chest.
"Bacta takes longer to act on the Chiss."
He answers her unasked question, shrugging his shoulders.
"Thank you," there is a new note in her voice, it swells in a soft whisper, yet holds the power and emotion rivalling that in loudest speeches, "for saving me."
"You're welcome, Senator."
Their eyes lock again, and the feeling is… disorienting though not unwelcome. He's used to holding scrutinising gazes of sentients far more dangerous or powerful than Senator Organa, yet this is neither a staring contest nor a battle of wills, it's not even an excuse to analyse the woman opposite. It's just a moment. One impossibly long moment that stretches, defying the theory of time and laws of physics, when a speckle, a particle of something completely illogical yet profound passes between them.
She takes a deep breath and leans against the back of her chair.
"We need to make a press statement, the entire galaxy saw the shots…"
"You seem to be adept at handling them."
He waves his uninjured hand dismissively, preparing to focus on his datapad again.
"You have to be there," her tone brooks no argument, Senator Organa raises to her full 5 foot height, crossing her arms over her chest. "Every moment every we remain silent, the future looks uncertain, and both the New Republic and the Empire look weak."
Well, now she's in her element, a strategist in her finally taking over, and Thawn has to admit it's a measure of comfort, such a welcome contrast to a few minutes ago. Give her a place to stand and a lever, and she will move worlds.
"You have thirty minutes, Grand Admiral, see you in the hall."
"Senator?"
She turns around, already in the doorway.
He probably shouldn't, there is no logical reason to do it, it's playing with fire yet again, but he cannot resist.
"If you insist on giving orders, would you mind sending a message to Hammerly and Antilles as the bet keepers on both sides? They can send the credits to my account."
Raised eyebrows, narrowed eyes, confusion written all over her face.
"Day 11, Senator, I won the bet about shooting."
A subsequent kaleidoscope of emotions on Senator's Organa's face is a sight to behold: the range, pure, unadulterated quality and colour of each emotion, the speed of change.
Confusion, recognition, understanding, annoyance, rage, and then, despite her best efforts, a barely suppressed wonder.
Unbidden, a ridiculous through crosses his mind, she reminds him of a Csilla sunset at the Mitth homestead. Same amalgamation of contrasting colors, each made even brighter by the presence of another. The art of simultaneous contrast. Stupid, but the allegory stands. He brushes it away and blames it on an adverse reaction to whatever painkillers med droids had administered, their databases still hopelessly outdated when it comes to Chiss biology.
"You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
"What happens if one day you're gonna be wrong?"
"You may well be there to help me up."
"Like an Ewok moving a star destroyer," she snickers to her own joke. "Thirty minutes, Grand Admiral, make yourself presentable."
He eyes his uniform jacket lying in a heap on the floor. Well, that one is definitely dramatic, soaked in blood and all, but he doubts that it fits the definition of presentable. She catches his eye, doesn't say anything but leaves the chamber like a woman on a mission.
Author's note
Thrawn did tell us everything about his strategy in chapter 7, and about shooting on day 11 in chapter 4, but did we listen? ;)) more to come regarding the aftermath of that attempted coup.
Leia is shaken and is high on emotions, that's all I have to say, people in such state are rarely logical. She'll tell us more herself in the next chapter.
Oh, apologies one more note. Yes, Thrawn is (again) shirtless during their last conversation. Sue me ;)